This
is a post-hogwartian fic that may require creative interpretation of
some cannon events. For example, Draco as a leather pant wearing
auror is too good a character to pass up, even if it is more fannon
than cannon at this point.

Chapter
One – Reverse Superman

His
armbone shattered with a wet sounding snap, and the auror flew into
the ground, screaming in pain.

Just
as I'd planned.

"Gosh,
terribly sorry old chap!" I cried, flying straight over, holding a
thumb up behind my back at George and Fred.

Now
don't get me wrong, I really was sorry the poor sod had to get his
arm splintered by a bludger, but sadly we didn't have any time to
come up with anything... well, less drastic, shall we say.

All
of us flew over and landed to help the lad up again. Really though,
the way he was carrying on was quite uncalled for. Of course, maybe
this was the first time he'd had a bone broken. Of course, first
time it happened to me was when I was something like five or six
years old, so my heart wasn't doing a whole bunch of bleeding for
him.

Eventually
we got his snivelling butt inside The Burrow, and I dodged Gin who
was doubtless wondering why me and the twins had conspired to break
an auror's arm. Then I dodged Molly's lecture about playing too
roughly, dodged the guy with the broken arm who wanted to hero
worship me a bit, and finally beat a hasty retreat to my flat. With
that sort of prowess in evasion, they should have called me the
Artful Dodger, not Mad Harry Potter the Madman like some people did.
Sadly, those people were mostly my collegues, but there you are.
Comes with the territory I guess.

Anway,
I figured the poor schmuck would be recovering under Molly's tender
care for at least a week, which would give me all the time I needed.
That was of course why we'd had to shatter his arm, not just go for a
clean break. It wouldn't do at all to have him up and around and
able to do his job in a couple days time after a gulp of skelegrow
potion.

So I
settled down with a small glass of port and went over the files one
more time. The small glass was because of constant vigallence, and
all that. The files were because after all that time hanging around
with Hermione, I had to pick up something. But anyway, everything
was coming together quite nicely.

I
laughed what was quite a credible evil laugh. I'd been practicing
again with Draco.

The
game was starting again, and this time I was playing to win. Not
just win, but win big.

The
next morning I headed into work, wearing a conservative three piece
suit, and looking like a total ministry drone. That is, if you were
willing to overlook the bleached hair and ear rings. And the fact
that I was the hotness. Whatever. It was all an image thing;
necessary, but a royal pain in the arse.

I am
Auror Harry James Potter, slayer of the Dark Lord Voldemort,
recipient of the Order of Merlin First Class, and all-round badass.

George
and Fred had made an action figure years ago, and it still sold well.
Wizarding Britain still needed a big loud Griffindor superhero to
buy into, even after all these years.

So I
went ahead and did it.

Performed
a reverse superman.

I've
hidden Clark Kent and I run around like an idiot superhero, day after
day, week after week, and year after year.

So
as I stride through the hallways of the ministry towards my office
with a firm, purposeful, heroic step, I suppose I might as well
answer that question you're dying to ask.

"Mr.
Potter, why are you so bloody sexy?"

That
wasn't it? Sorry. You know things are bad when I'm cheeky even in
my inner expository monologues. Next question.

"Why
did you have to break another auror's arm yesterday?"

I'll
get to that. Things might get clearer as we go.

So I
get to my office and toss my jacket up onto a hook. They'd tried to
get me to wear a cloak, but I just wasn't up for that. Afterall, I
enjoyed wine, and anyone who wears a cloak and sips at red wine from
a glass is always a complete and utter basterd who gets fully owned
by the hero in the end, and I sure as hell wasn't going down that
path.

And
anyway, bespoke tailoring is better than fuggly robes anyday of any
week.

Compared
to the other auror offices, you could tell this one was mine from the
movie posters up on the wall. Most wizards weren't that familiar
with movies, so the big poster in the frame advertising Akira
Kurosawa's Yojimbo didn't mean anything to them at all, other than a
wierd drawing that didn't move at all.

Yojimbo,
for those who don't know, refers to a bodyguard for hire. Like me.
Whoring myself out to the ministry just for the chance to make sure
that nobody else has to live the life I have, and maybe save some
people in the process.

One
time when we were drunk, Ron asked me how they were paying me. The
ministry, I mean. He knew it wasn't the money or fame. He kept
pushing me, and I ended up standing up in the middle of a wedding
reception, drunk off my skull, listing all the people killed by
Voldemort and all the other fucking pureblood supremacists who'd come
after him. All those dead people had given everything. They'd
bought my soul with theirs, from the day of my birth until the day I
died fighting for them.

He
didn't ask again. I know that Ron, Hermie, Gin, and some of the
others didn't really buy into my reasoning, but I refused to argue
about it with them.

Come
to think of it, that little bit of self pity that just slipped out
might have given you an answer to another question. Why did people
still need a superhero? Let's just say that some of Voldemort's
ideals didn't exactly die with him. They just slipped underground.
Death Eaters and their sympathisers went back to their businesses and
fortunes and kept quiet. And every once in a while, muggle born
wizards and witches would die. Squibs would be hunted down and
killed. The punch at a wedding between a pureblood and a mudblood
would be spiked with something other than alcohol.

Really,
it was a hell of a lot harder than before. Nobody leapt around in
funny outfits screaming out "Now's the time to DIE, Potter!!!".
Nobody cackled an insane laugh before using the crucio curse on a
puppy, or if they did it was in a members only pureblood club, hidden
away from view. Or maybe the one using the crucio was an auror who's
neice had been at the wedding with the poisoned punch who really
wanted some answers to their questions.

Now,
like I read in a book somewhere, it was half angels fighting half
devils, and I sure as hell didn't know which I was. But it really
didn't matter what I was; what mattered was who I was fighting for.

I
tossed off a salute to the Yojimbo poster, grabbed my jacket and
sword cane, and headed off to the Monday assignments meeting of the
central auror bureau.

On
my way out of the office, I almost bumped into Draco who was also
heading down to the meeting.

If
there'd been any sexual tension at all between us, it would have been blazing like a forest fire.

A
female trainee auror passing us turned bright red and almost fainted.

Score.

It
was the little games that made life fun. Later we could read what
she'd posted on the MagicBoard (tm) fangirl forums and get a
good laugh.

We
sauntered off to the meeting, and I murmured over to Draco.

"Cover
a spell for me when we get in there, huh?"

"Sure
mate. What's up?"

"I
need a specific assignment, one of the last ones."

"Fill
me in later?"

"Cheers."

Slouching
at the back of the room in some horribly uncomfortable chairs, Draco
pulled an ostentatious cigarette holder out, tapped one in, and lit
it with a unnecessarily showy wandless flame conjuration.

This
helped to reinforce his already well-cultivated image, but also gave
me a chance to toss a quick charm on myself without anyone noticing
the comparitively minor magical release.

The
last thing I wanted was for any of the higher ups to pay any real
attention to me before I needed them to. In theory I was out on
vacation.

The
head auror arrived a couple minutes later, and we spent the next hour
going over assignments for the fifty or so aurors that were in the
room.

"Ah,
I'll take that one, Sir," I said, dropping the charm and lifting a
languid hand. "Little Johnny got his arm smashed playing Quiddich
this weekend, so I ended up coming in to cover for him until he's up
and around again."

"Merlin,
Potter, you're a pain in the arse. Fine, switch him onto it when he
can hold a wand. Here's the file."

"Roge-oh,
Sir," I said, and slipped out of the room before the ministry aide
who was there could do anything about it.

Ten
points to Harry bloody Potter.

And
yes, that's why Johnny had to get his arm busted up on the weekend.

See,
here's the back story. A paper spreads news that they'd be running a
big expose on ministry corruption in a week's time. Now to me and
the others I run with, its clear that the paper will never get a
chance to publish that story, since the corrupt parts of the ministry
are, well, corrupt. There's never a lack of bigots, dark lovers, and
psychotics who are quite willing to do anything at all for a few
galleons. The people in the minstry who won't want this published
have plenty of galleons.

So
we send a death threat, cripple the useless junior who the ministry
would assign to protection duty to make things easy for their
killers, and get me into the full time bodyguard gig instead.

This
convinces more corrupt officials that there's something serious going
on. The week goes on, and the minor thugs they send first to deal
with the editor and paper get taken out by me. People who stand to
loose more start to panic. They start to ask other people questions
about what they should do. Money changes hands. Maybe they get
themselves a werewolf or two.

The
shit hits the fan.

I
stand firm for a week and draw the heat onto me and the editor I'm
guarding. Hermie and all the others run around like crazy for a week
and spy on absolutely anything that so much as fucking squeeks,
gathering evidence.

In
the end, the puppet masters get exposed attempting to stop the
expose. I get to take out a bunch of low level dark lover trash.
Plus then there's the fallout from the expose itself. Situational
irony at work.

Harry
Potter and company win big.

Call
it a double sting operation, or whatever you like, but in the end all
that really matters is the last bit, where we win, and they loose.

So I
go and draw some equipment from the materials section, including some
stuff that I probably shouldn't have. But the equipment officer this
morning is female, and although it irratates me, Draco insists on
calling my sword cane a 'pimp stick' for a reason. Well, a reason
other than the fact that it irritates me.

Not
that I actually date anyone. Attachment equals vulnerability and
vulnerability equals point of attack, and as the movies show,
vulnerability through attachment equals doing a slow motion jump in
front of that point of attack meant for your loved one, screaming
"NOOOOOOOOOO!".

Anyway,
so I 'port home, grab a week's worth of cloths suitable for fighting
in, get Dobby to stuff them in a trunk, grab some other equipment
which in no way belongs in my hands, and 'port out to the country
house I'll probably be spending my week defending. I walk up to it,
noting sight lines and ward systems.

I've
been here before, even if it was a few years ago, so after I knock on
the door, I take a pinch of sparkling dust out of the jar on the
doorframe and sprinkle it over my head.

The
door opens, and I find myself looking into the distinctive eyes of one
of my old friends.

"Hullo,
Harry Potter," she says, and gives me a nervous smile that's not
quite what I expected from her.

Of
course, as you may have guessed, the paper in question is The
Quibbler, and the editor is Luna Lovegood.